


Unstoppable, Immovable

by LicksP (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Everyone Is Gay, Hurts So Good, Kinda Songfic. Like I don't intersperse lyrics throughout but each chapter is based on a song., M/M, MAY OR MAY NOT CONTAIN A LEMON, Shooting, Slash, So Wrong It's Right, Terrorists, trigger warning, youre going to hate me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LicksP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far would you go to save the one you love? </p><p>Grantaire has Enjolras on a pedestal, because where he himself has failed Enjolras rises up to the call. His feelings are met with disapproval and mocking, and what Enjolras can't see is that he is the only one who can stop Grantaire's world from falling apart.</p><p>Would you take a bullet for them...</p><p>Or eight?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstoppable, Immovable

“ _ Salut, _ Chevalier! That’s all the mail I’ll be getting this week. Demanding classes, as you know.” Enjolras said, gathering the small stack of mail from the countertop of the mailroom. “Yeah, I know, you’ve said it hundreds of times.” The eccentric postal worker rasped from somewhere behind the shelves.  “For all intents and purposes, you ought to buy a duster. It would do you good,” Enjolras suggested, chuckling. He heard a harumph, taking it as his cue to retreat to the gas station next door:  _ Réveil Brassée _ .   


**(AN: That means “Brewed Awakening” in French. puns, gotta love ‘em!! it’s a gas station that also sells coffee. have fun)**

  
Upon walking in the door, he was greeted with a boisterous ‘Ah, there’s Marcelin!’ from the station manager and fellow student, Etienne Chastain. “Hello, Etienne. Nice to see you, like every day.” The manager laughed heartily and walked around the counter, giving Enjolras a clap on the back. “Yes, it is, isn’t? The day is wonderful and bright! You should be happy,” he said.  “I agree the day is wonderful. But there’s no time to be happy, I have work to do,” Enjolras countered. At that Etienne frowned and said slowly, “Ah, well, take a break once in a _cependant que_ , alright? You’ll get work done much faster if you are happy. Now, would you like _une noisette_? It’ll perk you right up. (Grantaire has to get the ingredients from the back, though, we don’t make it very often.)”  
  
Enjolras nodded and took a seat at one of the two little tables by the window. “That sounds good, thanks.” Etienne clapped his hands and grinned, disappearing behind the counter. After a few minutes, Enjolras spied the manager shoving an unhappy Grantaire out the employee’s door with a slap on the behind, nearly spilling the poor man’s order.   
  
He stood up and straightened his jacket, then went to pay for the drink. As he got close, a strong smell of wine hit Enjolras like a brick wall. He turned his head slightly in revulsion, forcing himself to walk up to the cashier's counter without gasping for fresh air. “How much?” He started taking some euros out of his pocket, but Grantaire stopped him and leaned on the counter. “It’s on the house, actually.”  
  
“How much is it?” Enjolras repeated, seemingly ignoring the cashier’s remark. “Would €10 be enough?" Grantaire shook his head and grinned. "No, that'd be too much, I think. How about none?"  
  
"Well then, how much is it?" Enjolras snorted in irritation. "I've no patience for your games today, Grantaire; I am going to take my beverage, and you, _mon ami toléré_ , shall put my money in the register. Are we clear?" The cashier threw back his head and laughed, looked down at his girlish, bossy customer, and _winked_. "Oh? And what will you do if I _don't_?"  
  
"You leave me with no choice, then," Enjolras retorted. He slammed the money down, mumbled ‘I’m locking you out’ and power-walked out. Grantaire, meanwhile, simply watched him leave. And by watched, I mean laughed his ass off.  Etienne, by no design of his own, reappeared at that moment. "Where did Marcelin go? Is he late for something?" he questioned, picking up Enjolras's cup, clearly marked with Sharpie in big, bold lettering: Apollo. "Mm, probably not. Knowing 'im, he's just upset that his first name is now public information."  
  
"No, no, it's Marcelin. Not Apollo. That's too pretentious, R,” Etienne corrected the cashier. “Plus, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” He cocked an eyebrow.  “Really, now? It’s not like I live with him or anything.” The manager chuckled. “Well, you share a living space. That’s different from _vivent ensemble_.”  
  
“True, _mon ami_. And yet we both know he isn’t going to lock me out, don’t we?” Grantaire tilted his head, knowing he was right. Etienne nodded. “Yes, I agree… _Quand allez-vous lui dire?_ ”  
  
“Soon, probably. Not that much longer, I promise.”  
  
“You keep saying that.”  
  
“Well, it’s true.”  
  
“Should we put that drink in the fridge or _non_?”  
  
“Yes, let’s.”  
  
Etienne took the cup and placed it in the mini fridge below the register. “So, how goes the boxing, dancing, singing, tattoos, and what not?”  
  
“I’ve got a match tonight, pretty well, could be better, hella, and yeah.” Grantaire shrugged and cracked his knuckles. “It’s getting kinda late… Mind if  I head back to my place to, y’know, get ready and stuff?” The manager smiled and said, “Alright, but don’t get beat up too much. You’re due to come back in at twelve o’ clock tomorrow. You can leave at 8, though, since you have some sort of meeting?”  
  
R nodded and said, “Promise. I might stay a little longer than that. Besides…”  
  
“The meetings aren’t all that important.”

* * *

~Elsewhere, AKA down the street~  
  
Enjolras, naturally, forgot he even bought a drink in his pursuit to pay.  Rather, he left his money, stormed out, and then walked halfway down the street before realizing that. Cursing Grantaire, he mulled over whether to swallow his pride and get the drink or whether to continue on back to the flat to finish typing up a paper.  
  
“No,” he thought aloud. “Who needs charity? I refused to accept it and that’s how it will stay.” A part of Enjolras was still upset over how he just wasted his money. No matter, he thought. It provides someone else food. That’s perfectly acceptable.  
  
His childish whining was cut short by a loud honk scaring the daylight out of him.  
  
Enjolras screamed in a rather manly way and clutched the front of his jacket. Grantaire rode closely past, blaring a cheap air horn in E’s direction and yelling “Get wrecked, Apollo!” The blond hollered back, “You _connard_! Go scare someone your own size!” R just laughed and kept on, throwing the horn behind him before speeding ahead.  
  
When Enj reached his flat, he noticed the door was wide open. (Yet he didn’t notice Grantaire’s bike sitting inside the front door.) Cursing himself for being careless, he cautiously checked around to make sure that no one was lurking around, and that nothing was missing. He heard a thump from upstairs and flinched.  
  
Taking a risk, he grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen and approached the stairs.  
“ _Qui est là?_ ” Enjolras called out, hoping that it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.  Littering the stairs up and down were crumpled papers, presumably sketches that Grantaire had rejected.  
  
“ _C’est moi!_ ” R called out, accompanied by another thump. “What the hell are you doing up there?!” Enjolras yelled, stomping up the stairs and waving around his weapon. “I thought you were a burglar! I could’ve killed you!” He threw open Grantaire’s door, fuming and making a severely irritated face.  
  
“I’m practicing; it’s very doubtful that you could or woulda killed me. You lost the el’ment of surprise when you asked who ‘as here,” R mumbled, taking a break from pummeling his punching bag. He stared at Enjolras with hands on his hips, tilting his head. “That woulda been a bad mistake, y’know.”

* * *

“You’re not having a fighting match tonight, are you?” At a shocked glance from Grantaire, Enjolras put up a hand.   
  
“Let me finish, please. First of all, by earning money that way, you are only going to get poorer. You know as well as I do that unemployed citizens in this country are better off than those of us who work, because of the ridiculous plan the government put in place to take care of its poor by overtaxing people like you to the point of severe poverty.  _ Deuxièmement, ne pas oser dire qu'il est sécuritaire. _ I know that you participate in the unorganized parts of the sport, and that’s extremely dangerous. Did you know that good men have died from that? Did you, Grantaire? Because I’m willing to bet you didn’t.  And another thing: it’s  _ moche _ . It’s violence without any other purpose than to entertain a blood-hungry crowd. That is the wrong kind of message to send, _ tu es connard fou _ . What if someone you defeated decides to resort to cheap tricks and attacks you outside of the ring? What then,  _ mon cher _ ? Would you still be able to fend them off if they surprise you?  _ Je ne le pense pas _ . I do not want to go to prison, Grantaire, for shooting someone who attacked you and potentially sends you to the hospital. But I will do what I must to keep you from being  _ téméraire _ in certain matters; this being one of them. I forbid you from going to that match.”   
  
Grantaire took a few moments to ponder this.   
  
“ _ Káno aftó pou mou arései _ ,” he stated. “You’re not the leader of me outside of the Café Musain. Outside of that place, I am who I am and I do what I must. This, I think, is something we both have in common. And yet, it sets us so very far apart. You do what would be best for the whole of the people; I do what would be best for  _ O koinós ánthropos _ . This is how we are different. And this is why I am going to go.”   
  
“R,” Enjolras growled. “I am not going to let you get yourself hurt... This is for your own good.”   
  
“What is- Hey!”   
  
Grantaire scrambled forward as the blond slammed the door shut and locked it from the outside. R began hammering on the door, cursing Enjolras loudly. “Ghislain-Apollo Enjolras, you let me out of my room this instant! I’ll not stand for this! I’ll throw your laptop in the river!  _ Morosoph! Excerebrose! Ructabonde! Charogne! _ *”   
  
It was now 7:30 p.m.   
  
After what seemed like infinity, Grantaire had begun to quiet down and stop battering the door. Enjolras grew suspicious as time passed, and took the chance of unlocking the door and peeking in.   
  
The window was wide open.   
  
And there was a rope tied to the bedpost, leading out of the window.   
  
“God, I should have known!  _ L’idiot _ couldn’t be helped, why does he never listen?” Enjolras raged, slamming a fist against the door frame. He spun around and flew down the stairs, yanked his coat off the coat rack, pulled it on and sprinted out of the front door. (He forgot to lock it.)   
  
“Where, where did Jehan say it was,” he muttered quickly under his breath, glancing side to side before dashing to the right. He vaguely remembered Jehan saying something about the match being somewhere on --  _ Porte de Montreuil _ ! “The seedy blocks, most likely. Just the place to have a fight. Just the place for _ le branleur _ to go.”   
  
Enjolras was fired up and ready to run, but a sudden realization stopped him.    
  
It was nearly 6 km from where they lived.   
  
“Do I have that kind of stamina? That’d take me half an hour!  _ Puis-je l'atteindre dans le temps? _ **” He lamented, then made up his mind. He’d get there as fast as possible; it started at 8:15, and so he would have a small timeframe with which he could change Grantaire’s mind.   
  
Grantaire pulled up at the backstreet alleyway where he was to get ready for his match.   
Off to the side, while people clamored past, he raised his hands to the sky and quietly murmured a prayer to Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. (This was because he had grown up in a house surrounded by his heritage; his family would not let him forget who he was.) No one paid attention to him except to cast strange glances in his direction, for which he was grateful they didn’t interrupt him.    
  
Grantaire finished his prayer by taking a small laurel leaf and setting it on the ground,  took a (plastic) bottle filled with wine from his bag, poured a little out and then drank a little bit himself. Afterward he slinked inside, snaked his way past the crowd and over to the corner which beheld his opponent, and sat down. 

* * *

 

**(AN: Grantaire is religious in the ironic sense. He does it not because he believes, but because he grew up in a Greek household and it felt natural. Kinda like how non-churchgoers pray when they’re trapped in the figurative fox hole. They don’t believe, but they pray. If I am being offensive or misinformed IN ANY WAY AT ALL, please please PLEASE tell me. It’s hard to find research on super-specific things. Seriously, tell me. I’ll fix it gladly.)**

  
Enjolras, meanwhile, had reached Porte de Montreuil realized in addition that even though he’d reached the street, he had no clue which building it would be in. Therefore, he decided he must use his awesome POWERS OF INFERENCE and either follow shady-looking folks discreetly down the street, ask someone and demand they tell him or eavesdrop until he heard someone talking about it.    
  
He chose the second. After two unsuccessful inquiries, the third stranger he commanded, at last, gave him success.    
  
It was 8:05 p.m.   
  
Now knowing where Grantaire was, Enjolras stormed by the wine and laurel on the ground and into the warehouse. The building was a bit crowded, but he still asked around where the fighters were (and by ‘asked’ I mean ‘demanded’) and no one was willing to be helpful, provided he change his tone with them. He didn’t.   
  
At last, he found  _ le bagarreur _ in a far corner, having a heated discussion with someone. There were two bottles of wine between them, one in Grantaire’s hand, one in the other person’s. Predictable. He did not know the other party, nor did he care.    
  
Enjolras marched right over to his comrade and yanked the bottle out of Grantaire’s hand, pulled him up by his shirt collar, and rather forcibly dragged him back through the crowd and outside. Coincidence would have it that Enjolras pulled R directly over to where he’d made his earlier offering, and standing directly on top of the laurel leaf.   
  
“ _ Tu _ ,” he hissed, “ _ es un crétin. Comment osez-vous aller à l'encontre de ma commande? _ You had no right to disobey me like that, Grantaire. Did you not listen to me when I said it was  _ pour votre propre bien _ ?! That meant that I was trying to protect you,  _ vous ingrat _ . It did not mean I was trying to  _ prendre votre plaisir _ ! You know that you can spar with Bahorel any time you please, don’t you? Because you can, and another thing. Don’t you remember when you got a  _ lèvre fendue _ from doing this?! You needed stitches,  _ pour l'amour du Christ _ . I cannot believe that you would do such a thing, but apparently I must, for  _ tu l’as fait _ ! One might say you were insubordinating me, you know. That would be a bad position to be in, in the Les Amis!  _ Oui, il serait en effet _ . In the old days, you might’ve been hanged for your crimes. But because we do not live in that past, and because I consider myself just, you will not be punished accordingly as you would if I were not. Consider yourself lucky,  _ mon frère _ .”   
  
All while making this speech Enjolras had been waving his hands around (he’d thrown the wine bottle in the trash), huffing, and hissing. One would think Grantaire had just bet out all their money (he didn’t) and lost.   
  
And meanwhile, the clock struck 8:15 p.m.   
  
Grantaire nodded and trivialized the entire address by saying, “It’s time, Enjolras. I’ll be home in a while. You go on ahead without me. I promise you I won’t get hurt… too badly, at least.” He disregarded Enjolras and pecked him on the cheek, then wrenched his arm away and attempted to return inside.   
  
Enj wouldn’t let him. “ _ C’est scandaleux! Inconcevable! Je ne vais pas vous permettre de rivaliser _ ,” he raged, gripping his compatriot’s shoulder. “ _ Je ne vais pas rentrer à la maison. _ ” Grantaire responded by telling Enjolras to ‘Go home, then, or stay and watch’ and disappeared amongst the swirling cloud of match-goers. 

 

Without hesitating, Enjolras forced himself into the middle of the chaos. 

* * *

**(AN: Yves’s fighting relies more on** **_Savate_ ** **while Grantaire’s more closely resembles American boxing.)**

 

Enjolras pushed his way up to the front of the crowd, where there was an unobstructed view of the makeshift ring. Tall, lanky Grantaire was on the other side, taking a last swig of the bottle before pulling himself up between the ropes.

 

“It’s ‘im! The drunk bleeder!” the crowd roared in laughter as he wiped a little bit of wine off the side of his mouth, leaning on the ropes. “Alright, folks, are you all  _ prêt pour un combat? _ ” The multitude cheered in return. “Here are your fighters today: “The Iron Tiger” Grantaire and Yves “Dancing Thunder” Desrochers!” At the sound of their names, the mass kept cheering Yves, but many of them actually began to  _ boo _ Grantaire. Instead of looking bothered, he scanned the crowd as if he were searching for something. 

 

He found what he was looking for. Grantaire locked eyes with Enjolras and smiled for a good two seconds before putting his attention back on his opponent, looking for any obvious weaknesses. (The way he was looking at him was misconstrued by Enj to be checking his foe out.)

 

Yves was right-handed, he noticed, which was something he could use to his advantage. Grantaire himself was left-handed. Technically he was ambidextrous, for from a young age he was taught to be right-handed. He had the upper hand in that.

 

According to a statistics website, Yves also seemed to be a fan of  _ coup de pied bas _ . This was irrelevant to Grantaire, who moved quickly and blocked even quicker. 

 

The referee finished reciting the regulations, and the bell sounded. Grantaire’s footwork was precise, deliberately slow, because R had a hunch that Yves would throw the first punch.

 

He was right. Yves went in with a feint, but Grantaire didn’t fall for it and slipped past the next jab that Yves threw at his right jaw. He counterpunched, landing an uppercut on Yves’s washboard and hopping back.

 

The foe grunted when R made contact, but otherwise made no more moves. Yves and Grantaire moved around the ring, their footsteps so light on the mat that it seemed they were floating. This continued for a few seconds, and then it shattered like glass. Yves lunged at Grantaire’s midsection; Grantaire retaliated by throwing a harsh right hook, connecting directly with his competition’s jaw and threw off his balance.   
  


Yves started to fall, but caught himself and feinted a  _ coup de pied bas _ , before jabbing at Grantaire’s poorly covered face. His knuckles smashed into R’s nose. At the exact same moment, the referee called for them to stop. Yves retreated to  his corner, flexing his muscles and grinning while the crowd cheered his name. 

 

Grantaire and the Cut Man were already in the opposite corner, and rowdy spectators were yelling snide remarks and booing so horribly that Enjolras cleared a way over and tapped on Grantaire’s ankle through the ropes. R turned his head, looking wildly around while the Cut Man scolded him for not staying still.

 

“Down here,” Enj tapped his ankle again. This time Grantaire didn’t look, but acknowledged the tap by tapping his foot in return. “You’re doing good,” Enjolras reassured him. “Those sorry  _ fauteurs de troubles _ are just trying to irritate you.” The Cut Man finished stuffing gauze up R’s nostrils, and released him. Grantaire stooped down beside his comrade’s face. “You think I won’t win?” Enjolras laughed and replied, “Maybe, but I definitely know you won’t  _ lose _ .” (This was to say that it would either be a tie or Grantaire would win.)

 

R nodded and  rose, calling to his opponent,“ _ Éla apó edó! _ I’m not afraid of you!” Yves glared at him and strode to the middle of the ring, waiting for Grantaire to do the same. He did, and as soon as the bell rang, Yves exploded upon R with sharp hooks and jabs, taunting his opponent to hit him already. Grantaire blocked a good amount of them, but still connected with more than a few. 

 

Yves could see what Grantaire was trying to do: he was trying to exhaust him, after which he’d go on the offense. It was working. He was indeed getting tired, and decided to make it seem like he was already exhausted. R saw through this and did not attempt to hit his foe. Frustrated, Yves tried to feint, but he did so in blindness and did not cover his face.

 

This resulted in Grantaire lunging at him with surprising speed, landing a sharp left hook, then a right jab, and a final uppercut.

 

Which, in turn, caused a stunning knockout for Yves.

 

The spectators went silent for a full three minutes as the referee tapped the canvas, and when it was confirmed that Yves had lost, he grabbed Grantaire’s wrist and raised it high. The ref declared, “Official winner by K.O. is ‘The Iron Tiger’ Grantaire! Give ‘em a hand, everybody!”

 

The crowd started cheering. Grantaire collected his prize money from the ref and bowed with a flourish. Before he left the ring, he ambled over to Yves and his trainer. “Hey, you alright man? Sorry if I hurt you too badly,” he said. The trainer piped up in his charge’s place. “He’ll be fine. I’d expect he would  _ vouloir se venger _ , though. Nice fighting.” R nodded and started to leave the building, but was blocked by the crowd. They hounded him, and it took all Grantaire had to be polite and try and slip past them. 

 

Luckily, Enjolras swooped in and grasped his arm, clearing a path for the poor man and specifically telling Yves’s most loyal fans to “ _ Casse-toi, vous vautours _ !” 

 

When they were safely outside, Enjolras shook Grantaire by the shoulders. “Are you still awake? I think I should take you to Joly, or maybe Combeferre… Yes, either of them would be good. What should we do about your bike, though? Christ! This is why I told you not to go through with the fight. Anyways, I guess we’ll just have to bring it with us. I don’t think Joly lives far from here.”

 

“One more thing, Grantaire, don’t think you’ve gotten off the hook. Once you get taken care of, I’ve got a few choice words for you,” Enjolras grumbled, tugging his friend along by his wrist. “But you won! Outstanding, _ combattant _ - _ Non _ ! _ Mon vainqueur redoutable . _ Didn’t I say you wouldn’t lose? Yes, I believe I did. See? This is why you should listen to me more!”

 

Grantaire simply walked along, listening to Enjolras with silent veneration. (More likely, he was only tired out from the match. But let’s pretend that isn’t why he wasn’t talking.) 

 

After a short time, R interrupted him. “ _ Je pense que nous avons passé la maison de Joly? _ ” Enjolras shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He lives a little farther, I think.” Admittedly, he was wrong. They had indeed passed Joly’s place. Grantaire noted this again, and this time they turned around and went back the way they had come.

* * *

They found the right house and knocked on the door. For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then the door cracked open and they heard someone mumble out, “Who is it?” Enjolras cleared his throat. “Joly, I need you to take a look at Grantaire. He’s got a broken nose, from a bout.” The door opened further to reveal none other than the worrisome medical student. “A broken nose? Christ! Come in, come in! I’ll need to look at it immediately.”

 

Enjolras and Grantaire obeyed, following Joly to the bathroom. “By the way, where’s Bossuet and Musichetta?” Joly whistled, “They actually left a little while ago. You two shouldn’t be out brawling, you should be at home!” 

 

The pair shrugged, and all three crammed into the bathroom. Grantaire sat on the sink; Enjolras sat on the bathtub wall; Joly remained standing, tilting R’s head this way and that. “Looks like it’s not crooked, but we’ll have to take the gauze out and stop the bleeding. What kind of doctor just stuffed it up your nose? Did it happen during the brawl? The boxing doctors are notorious for being terrible at their jobs! Why didn’t the attending physician stop the fight? I should have been there.  _ Grantaire, don’t yank it out like that!  _ Slowly, like this,” Joly demonstrated, scolding Grantaire for pulling on the gauze too roughly. He  sighed and did as he was told, still silent the whole way through. 

 

“Now, pinch the soft part of your nose - yes, the part by the nostrils, like that - and tilt your head forward. You’ll have to stay like that for at least 10 minutes. You’ll have a black eye, that’s for sure. Did you have any trouble breathing before the medic stuffed the gauze up your nose?” Enjolras answered for him. “No, he didn’t. I was up by the ring when it happened; I had a very clear view, and I talked to him afterwards. He seemed to be alright.” 

 

Joly nodded. “In that case, he’ll still need to see a licensed physician to get it set back in place. Unless, of course, you  _ want _ your nose to be crooked like that for the rest of your natural lifespan. Or until you have a formal rhinoplasty at least six months from now,” he commented. “Would you like some water, Enjolras? R, you should wait until your nose stops bleeding.” 

 

“Yes,” the blond accepted. “I’ll wait here with Grantaire.” 

 

“Wonderful! You two wait right here,” Joly clapped and skittered off to get the beverage. “Would we go anywhere else?” Enjolras called after him. Grantaire giggled in a rather distorted way, prompting Enj to put a hand on his shoulder and entreat, “ _ Est-ce que ça va? _ ” 

 

“ _ D’accord _ ,” he whispered. It was hard to talk normally while his head was bent down and he was pinching his nose. “Good,” Enjolras whistled. “I’m still going to give you a stern talking-to, Grantaire. I’m still very much upset by your antics. Who knows, you could’ve given me a heart attack! And you’ll be the one to put all the sheets and blankets back where they go in your room.  _  
_ _ Je ne suis pas votre femme de chambre. _ ” 

 

Grantaire sputtered something under his breath that sounded like ‘ _ J'aimerais que tu sois _ ’, but one can never be too sure. Before Enjolras could question him, though, Joly cheerfully paraded in with a glass of water, which he handed to Enjolras. 

 

“Now! It’s been, what, eight minutes? Only a few left until I’ll check if it’s stopped. Now, Enjolras, how would you like to explain this whole mess to me? I’m going to be writing this down for reference.”

 

“Well! That would take a while. I’ll sum it up: Grantaire had a boxing match, I said no, locked him in his room. He escaped and did it anyways, got the nose, I went after him. Point being, he’s not out of the inn yet.” 

 

Joly whistled. “That’s quite a tale. I’d love to know the details sometime. It sounds interesting.” They spent the next few minutes chatting mindlessly, then Joly clapped his hands again. “Alright! Tilt  your head back up again, if you don’t mind.” Grantaire did so, but didn’t let go of his nose. At a poke from Joly he did, and  _ sneezed blood _ all over the poor guy. 

  
  


“Well,” Joly started. “It stopped bleeding. But  _ apparently _ your nose just had to clean itself out. I hope you learned your lesson, Grantaire. Looking for trouble will obviously bring it.” Enjolras chimed in with agreement. 

 

“Okay, okay,” R admitted. “I get it. Can I leave now?” Joly shrugged. “If you want to, I suppose. I’ll call you two a taxi.” Grantaire snorted. “I’m walking, Dr. Greenthumb.” Enjolras and Joly both started to protest, but he held up a hand. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for fixing me up, Doc. Keep in touch, yeah? I’ve got work in a few hours. I’m tired.” And with that, he deserted the premises. 

 

“If you keep stressing him out, I’ll draw and quarter the lot of you. Let him do what he wants, everyone needs to blow off a little steam every once in awhile,” Joly sighed. Enjolras snorted. “Fine, then. It seems you’d gladly keep treating him for injuries, then?” 

 

“Yes, actually, I would! I’d rather he not engage in such destructive hobbies, but you could take a lesson or two on the needs of his individual person, he  _ lives with you _ , for Christ’s sake. Do you know what his cat’s name is?” 

 

“Um-”

 

“It’s  _ Apollon Lykios Prostátis tis Eleftherías _ , which means ‘Apollo, the Shining Protector of Liberty’. Do you know why he named it that?”

 

“I-”

  
“Precisely. Now, if you don’t mind, you have to go to bed too.  _ Bonsoir, _ Enjolras. Go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Tell me what you thought. Were some parts a bore? Did I jump into drama and action too quickly? Were there any *too* OOC parts? Too many foreign words mixed in? Voulez-vous me à utiliser l'anglais plus??? DID I GET ANYTHING WRONG???? (I am very afraid I might offend somebody with the Greek parts. If anyone feels uncomfortable with it, or if anyone has anything to input on it, please let me know. If I got something wrong, let me know. If there is anything at all about any part of the story, LET ME KNOW. (A.k.a. Feedback appreciated!)


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